


You're Mine

by a1hobi



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: M/M, au where santino claims the marker well before the movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 21:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19048495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a1hobi/pseuds/a1hobi
Summary: A pale, lurid yellow had begun to part through the blinds from the eastern window. Morning had arrived in another unnecessary day. John breathed in deep and held it, held it until his lungs began to burn. Once the burn turned into a dull ache, he let go, slowly – trailing after the pain one last time before getting up.The days following the divorce had once been scathing memories, wounds unable to scab over from the constant picking, the constant reminders – now they were merely crude scars, poorly healed, still tender at the edges.Perhaps today would be the day.





	You're Mine

**Author's Note:**

> i'll edit this later for any glaring errors. first ever attempt at writing smut, i hope it isnt too shit. this au sprouted from my headcannon that santino and john had history together (why else would that brat help a tasarov assassin, other than for personal gain, of course. idk it felt too long run an investment and well thought out for a true beautiful dumbass like santino)
> 
> Edit: I realized the beginning made no sense with the ending. Added a quick edit for the sake of continuity. 
> 
> enjoy!

A pale, lurid yellow had begun to part through the blinds from the eastern window. Morning had arrived in another unnecessary day. John breathed in deep and held it, held it until his lungs began to burn. Once the burn turned into a dull ache, he let go, slowly – trailing after the pain one last time before getting up. 

  
The days following the divorce had once been scathing memories, wounds unable to scab over from the constant picking, the constant reminders – now they were merely crude scars, poorly healed, still tender at the edges.

 

Perhaps today would be the day. 

 

——

 

Helen had left this time last year. The weather had just begun to cool, the leaves of nearby trees beginning to turn from a vibrant green to speckled oranges and reds.

  
They’d both arrived home late from a date, Helen had gone to bed while John tidied the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  
At the door, Santino D’Antonio stood, clad in a tailored charcoal suit, silhouetted by the headlights of the various retainer vehicles behind him.

  
“John.”

  
“Santino.”

  
“May I come in?”

  
Grim disbelief had begun to settle in John’s stomach. He briefly glanced behind Santino, three guards flanking each vehicle, likely countless others within them, Ares standing to the far right. Their eyes met, hers shifting slightly to look at the upstairs window – a threat of violence neatly hidden behind her snide grin.

  
John only hoped Helen would not wake.

  
“Of course.”

  
John waved him in, attempting ambivalence at Santino’s presence, instead barely managing to conceal his contempt. Santino trailed behind him, openly scrutinizing the home. John’s fingers had begun to itch, his palm aching for the comfort of a gun.

  
“Your home is quite beautiful,” Santino’s voice ripped through the silence of the darkened hallway. John said nothing in return, brought them instead to a small table by large glass windows – they both sat engulfed in darkness, the moonlight streaming in bathing their clandestine meeting in sharp, jagged shadows.

  
“You can let go of the gun now John,” Santino coyly bared just a hint of teeth. John let go the textured grip of the pistol pinned beneath the table, placed his hands firmly on its cool, glassy surface. Kept his feet flat on the ground.

  
“What do you want Santino?” John mustered, voice rough, more a growl than a human voice.

  
“Oh John,” Santino leaned back in his chair, spread himself wide, “that’s no way to speak to someone you owe a debt to.” His eyes glittered under the moonlight, a cruel smile at his lips.

  
John heard the clink of the Marker landing on the table before he saw it. He’d briefly closed his eyes, hoped that it wouldn’t be there. He’d been a selfish fool to think otherwise.

  
“Please, don’t.” John looked up from the Marker and met Santino’s hard gaze, faintly glazed with disappointment.

  
“Consequences,” Santino responded, pushed the Marker across the table, the silver scratching at its surface as it slid towards him, “no one gets to leave untouched, John. Not the living, not the dead,” he stared pointedly at him, “not even ghosts.”

  
John felt trapped, a cage of his own making where Santino held the only key to the single, flimsy lock holding it closed. He could easily break it, kill him, take the key for himself – but that would be the end of this life, one he had so carefully cultivated. Helen deserved better.

  
“I can’t,” John said.

  
Santino’s face twisted into a wretched grimace, the face of a spoiled boy grown into a man used to the world spinning at his will. A sardonic laugh bubbled out of him, “You don’t even know what I want from you.”

  
“Whatever it is, I can’t. I am not that guy anymore.”

  
“But you are John, you’ll always be that guy.”

  
“I’m sorry.”

  
Santino bristled, visibly angry. He breathed in deeply, schooled his features, and collected the Marker, pocketing it away. He stood, briefly met John’s gaze, snickered softly and quietly left. The rumble of the vehicles growing distant as they rode away.

  
John sat still, tasted the calm of the room, swiftly made his way to the bedroom and laid next to Helen. He reveled in her warmth, breathed her in, relished in the momentary peace – desperately committed it to memory as he closed his eyes and slept.

  
By morning, Helen had gone.

  
She had woken in the night and heard the meeting. She left a note, mentioned her suspicions, her inability to go on living with the lies, and at the end, even apologized for the lack of a proper good-bye.

  
John couldn’t hold it against her, but the pain was just the same. It festered and grew into a fit of sharp, seething anger, its flames sitting at the pit of his stomach, consuming him entirely.

  
Santino had to pay.

  
\--

  
“I didn’t think I would be seeing you so soon,” Santino said as he stepped out of the suite’s bathroom, curls thoroughly soaked, wearing only a bathrobe. He bared a smug grin plastered to his lips as he tread closer to where John sat at the foot of the bed with the careful, wary steps of a predator eyeing a greater beast.

  
Santino had fled to The Continental, proof enough for John that Santino’s visit had been planned. He’d been waiting for him here, John’s presence presenting to him his success.

  
“Is this why you did it?” John looked up, leveled his eyes to Santino’s, soaking in the revelation, “petty jealousy?”

  
“ _Mio dio_ , John.” Santino let out a rough, humorless laugh, “You couldn’t possibly believe you’d be able to keep her?”

  
“I’d hoped.”

  
Santino scoffed, baffled that such a power could be reduced to broken whispers over something so banal. “Hope isn’t _for_ people like us, John. In this world, we _own_ hope.”

  
John bristled. “I left this world behind me. Why did you come?”

  
“If I couldn’t have you, why should she?”

  
“I love her.”

  
“John, people like you and me don’t know love. We were born and bred in violence. In our world, love means one more way to be weak, one more way to be struck, one more way to die.”

  
“I’m prepared to die,” John said, completely still, barely contained violence.

  
“Pity, my friend.” Santino moved closer, edged apart John’s legs, stood between them. “We could have had so much fun.”

  
Around him, John exuded a wild heat, Santino felt as if a great flame might consume John right before him. He felt drawn to it, and like the proverbial moth, he wanted to touch it. The closer he drew the more unsure he grew, the man before him was no longer a man he knew. Santino slowly raised his hand and caressed John’s cheek.

  
“Don’t.”

  
John raised his hand and gripped Santino’s wrist, tight enough to hurt.

  
“Don’t do this. This isn’t you. You don’t know tenderness.” John stood, swiftly raised his free hand to Santino’s neck, the pressure vice-like, deathly – his eyes blown wide, eager for a kill.

  
Santino let out a brief, startled laugh that had bubbled up and out of his chest. His laughter, rather than cause his death instead brought him to the bed, unceremoniously thrown much like a child would throw a doll.

  
Hoarse coughs began spilling out of him as he struggled to regain his breath, John remained standing at the foot of the bed, ogling him, a different hunger evident in his shallow breaths, a particular hunger only Santino knew how to quench. This was the man he remembered.

  
“Oh John, I know what you need.” He pulled the robe down his shoulders, extended his palm out to John. John reached out, Santino guided his hand up to his legs, softly letting him pad the bare skin, finally bringing his hand to the desperate heat between his legs, already leaking and wet. John bit a tight groan down, pushed Santino against the mattress and pushed away the rest of the robe. Quickly made to remove his own clothes. The beast was on fire and Santino was being ravaged by the flames.

  
John moved over Santino, covered him entirely, engulfing him with his body – roughly kissed him, moving lower to his neck. Santino began to rub himself against John, chasing a pleasure he thought he’d never taste again.

  
Two firm hands held Santino’s waist, pushed and held him down. John slowly made his way lower, nipping at Santino’s skin, leaving brief bites with his teeth. John looked up and met his gaze before taking Santino into this mouth, licking at the tip, easing him into his mouth. Santino let out a deep moan, a cry of pleasure and moved to pull at John’s hair. He was already so close.

  
John released his cock from the warm heat of his mouth, loosely began to pull in lazy strokes, his way of tormenting Santino, depriving him of release. Santino bucked into John’s hand, only to be held against the bed once again. He would get only what John allowed. John soon moved up to his mouth, ravished him, swallowing his groans as Santino grew flush and desperate. John’s free hand began to skirt near his hole, and when he noticed it already wet, pushed in a finger growing impossibly aroused at the easy slide.

  
Santino looked straight at John, smiled the devil’s knowing grin and coolly shrugged, his mouth slack as he uttered, “I make my own luck.”

  
“You bastard.” John said, as he flipped him over on his stomach, slid into him and began pounding him into the mattress. Santino rubbed himself against the sheets, overstimulated, he soon came with a wail. Feverish and satiated, he let John find his own release inside him, spilling into him as John bit on his shoulder blade, muffling a guttural moan.

  
After their breaths evened out and Santino managed the energy to move, they cleaned up.

  
Santino laid in a clean bathrobe, stretched over the divan next to the bed while John emerged from the shower, hair damp, a towel at his hips, his skin a light tinge of pink from the hot sprays. Santino felt his mouth water all over again.

  
John met his gaze, but quickly turned away and began to dress.

  
When he was completely done, he made to sit next to Santino, closer to the edge, almost afraid to touch him.

  
“You’re still wearing her ring.” It was not a question, Santino had noticed it when John exited the restroom, wearing it anew.

  
“It’s a reminder.”

  
“Of?”

  
“Of what you took from me.”

  
Santino swallowed hard. He did not regret it, he got to have John once again. “Do you still plan on killing me?”

  
John made to look at him but cast his sight away, as if looking at him brought him physical pain.

  
“I should hate you,” John spat with anger.

  
In that moment, for better, or for worse, Santino sat up and pulled out the Marker from the pocket of his robe. He pricked his finger and pressed his bloody print on it. “Consider the Marker paid, John.” Santino laid the Marker between them. John made to grab it, held it in his palm, contemplating it.

  
Maybe John would kill him with it. How poetic.

  
Just as time had dragged to the point of annoying Santino, John let out a soft sigh. It was a quiet sound, aged and tired. John got up and walked towards the exit.

  
As he opened the door, he looked back one last time.

  
“I won’t kill you today,” John said. “Perhaps tomorrow,” and made his exit.

  
Santino would have to extend his stay at The Continental longer than expected.

**Author's Note:**

> so I read Gomorrah by Roberto Saviano in an attempt at understanding the dynamics of Camorra clans and the such. But then I remembered I'm an idiot and can barely write coherent plots, heh. Melodrama it is! I'm honestly just happy I cranked this baby out before I start my summer classes and am once again buried in school work. 
> 
> thank you so much for making it to the end!!!!!<3 (I barely made it myself.)


End file.
